


Deal

by CosmicRooibos (MurasakiDoku)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, RP Turned Fic, casual bondage, originfic, sexual depictions of vehicular appreciation, various nameless characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 00:32:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10425264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MurasakiDoku/pseuds/CosmicRooibos
Summary: A Junkertown Enforcer makes a deal with the town's most wanted scavenger.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This RP has been modified from its original version. It has been edited for television and formatted to fit this screen.

This place is practically a prison.

 

Six bare concrete walls. Cracks riddle their surfaces. No paint; just the stains of blood, vomit, and a variety of other body fluids--no amount of bleach and scrubbing would ever erase the things that have happened in this room.

 

Junkrat sits on an aluminum chair, unrestrained. Not a problem for the person on the other side of that steel door. Metal fingers tap rhythmically against the flimsy fold-up table in the center of the room, the sound echoing loudly against the walls - but it's preferable over the sound of the droning buzz of the single naked yellow incandescent bulb hanging solely by its own power cord over his head.

 

Yep. A veritable empty prison.

 

But there's no such thing as a truly empty room to a scavenger, and Junkrat never gets stuck in a situation he didn't intend to get into in the first place. Roadhog is an Enforcer that takes his job very seriously - one of the few that did, and didn't just take up the occupation as an excuse to bully and torture whoever they wanted. It's hard to establish a sense of justice in a world that hasn't known the word for at least two decades. That's why Junkrat chose him. That's why Junkrat is looking for anything he can in this "empty" room.

 

His flesh hand searches the bottom surface of the flimsy table blindly, leaving no surface untouched. Under the chairs. Nothing.

 

Hmm.

 

Junkrat taps a finger against his chin, his other hand perched on his hip. Roadhog is too thorough to leave someone like Junkrat completely unsupervised during the "intimidation tactic" of leaving him to sit around, waiting in supposed anxious isolation.

 

He looks up...and gives a cheeky grin to the tiny camera hidden in the corner. Old tech, but doesn't look like it's in disrepair. He feels there's an equal chance that it's not working at all, and that Roadhog has been watching him carefully this whole time. Either way, Junkrat takes one of the chairs and intentionally slides it across the ground to create a god-awful noise, tucking it into the corner so he can use it as a platform to climb up on and start dismantling the camera with just his hands alone, grinning wildly into it the entire time.

 

Somewhere in the vicinity, Hog's thick lip curled at a grainy close-up of Junkrat's gums. A camera in a holding cell at the heart of junker society was very nearly pointless when the first instinct of every last one them was to screw with the thing. If anything at all, it only served to provoke the tired behemoth to take care of especial nuisances in a more urgent manner than his usual pace. Doubly so when hunter and quarry both knew that a man like him had a natural, nigh-irresistible urge to wipe a grin off a face like  _ that _ .

 

Where it had already begun to hover, Roadhog's finger pounds the switch that brings the intercom link to Junkrat's cell retching to life. Patched and re-patched wiring and ancient speakers all struggle to convey the sudden boom of the enforcer's authoritarian address.

 

“ **_J͏ami̴s̕o̶n F͘a̵w͞k͡es._ ** ”

 

Oh! Junkrat reflexively jolts at the unexpected, grainy sound of a sound system far past being on its last legs. This room's got  _ audio _ . Spiffy!

 

Roadhog’s breathing ebbs and flows over the line as he reflects upon the idea of exactly whom it was he now had locked tight in his pen. Jamison "Junkrat" Fawkes had become something of a local legend. The mad junker with a treasure worth twice every bounty and piece of scrap in the outback combined, who routinely splattered anyone who tried to outgun him for it. 

 

And yet here he presumably was. The man in the camera lens was practically indistinguishable from the next wily, wiry scrap of a junker. The only thing that had Roadhog convinced of his identity was the trail of destruction he'd found him at the end of.

 

“Got a friend of yours here, says he wants to see you.”

 

“Send 'im on in, then! I've got nothin' else better to do.” Considering his options, it's honestly true. Whether or not Roadhog can actually hear him is a moot point; he'd be talking anyway.

 

In preparation for his  _ distinguished guest _ , Junkrat replaces the chair where he found it, taking a seat. The camera is gone by the time his visitors drop by, and he doesn't seem to have hidden it anywhere obvious, either. He sits with his elbows perched on the table, fingers folded neatly in front of him. Politely. The only thing breaking the immersion of his patient act is bouncing leg -- it makes him seem impatient, but it's really just a tic right now, trying to keep others at bay.

 

A few minutes drip by before Roadhog's unmistakable lumbering could be heard down and throughout the hallway. The steel door wails on its hinges, giving way to a blackened humanoid shape in its threshold. An incredibly thin human being, little more than a skeleton, glides toward Fawkes rather than walks. That's because in actuality it's dangling from one of Roadhog's massive hands. He ducks into the room after it, bringing under harsh, harsh light someone who has met with an objectively terrible fate: flesh warped and charred to a pitch black finish, like a cooled magma flow. 

 

Any feature that could have once been used to identify this person has effectively been scorched away, with the exception of a prosthetic arm which looks to have been fashioned to double as some kind of (now defunct) weapon. 

 

Safe to say, it hadn't served them very well.

 

Metal and bone clatter off of more metal as Hog unceremoniously deposits the carcass in the chair across from Junkrat. He gives the skull a prod, nudging it to look in the fidgeting man's direction, then his masked visage tilts ever so slightly, as if to say  _ "look familiar?" _ It should. Certainly wasn't Hog's handiwork.

 

There's a clear moment of surprise from Junkrat as this charred individual comes into view. He wasn't expecting a corpse, especially of someone he didn't kn--oh, wait, that weapon. Ah, yes, he remembers it like yesterday.

 

(It was a few hours ago.)

 

Junkrat's surprise fades back into a pseudo-calm expression that eventually morphs into concern, thick brows knitting in concern for this poor, immolated individual, addressing him directly:

 

“Those're some pretty bad burns, mate.”

 

He turns to Roadhog, holding one hand up to the side of his mouth as if to create some kind of privacy, as if the dead guy's feelings were going to get hurt. “Y'think he's gonna be okay?”

 

Taking stock of one's surroundings while looking at them through smoked lenses is no easy task, but Roadhog has had lots and lots of practice. That, and he's made use of this room enough times to immediately note that the camera was missing. The sigh Hog lets out could easily be mistaken for another irregularity in his breathing pattern. 

 

Was it possible to rig a bomb out of camera parts? He'd seen plenty of shit in the last twenty years, but he wasn't worried—or pissed off—enough to grab the kid by the ankles and shake him upside-down. Yet.

 

All Roadhog does and continues to do is loom, blotting out the light with his mass as he cranes over the pair arranged at the table. Out from under his snout comes a deep crocodile rumble:

 

“Popular little rat, aren't you?”

 

He pushes the corpse's chair in properly as he says this.

 

“Too bad the other two couldn't make it.” Because that would have required a garbage bag. And possibly a spatula to scrape the gooier bits off the rocks. “Or was it just one? Couldn't really tell.  _ Hhh, hhh…” _

 

The big man was chuckling faintly at his own phrasing. The deaths of a couple of would-be bounty hunters weren't actually his concern; that much was already clear.

 

See? See!! This is all the proof Junkrat needs that he made the right decision. Roadhog is a man of taste, of appreciating quality comedy when he sees it. Or, at least that's what Junkrat thinks, but whatever the reality of the situation is, it's not stopping the manic grin spread across Junkrat's face as he leans back, throwing an arm over the back of this dingy metal chair.

 

This isn't as comfortable as he thought it would be.

 

“Can't take it too personally. Crispy and Bits wanted to break up the band, wanted to go duo. Cut ol' Junkrat out of the deal. But it's alright, they were dead weight ta' me anyway - without them, I  _ blasted _ me way to th' top of the charts!  _ Eheheheheee~ _ ”

 

Junkrat interrupts his own laughter by slamming his metal palm against the table, looking suddenly all kinds of Serious Business.

 

“So what's your game, big guy? You a manager? Tryin'ta get us back together?”

 

Said hand turns over, points it in the direction of Crispy.

 

“I'm tellin' ya now, mate, it ain't gonna work out. Look at 'im! Won't even talk to me now.  _ Jealous.” _

 

And so far, Crispy looked more willing to play along than Roadhog. Not that he had much of a choice, what with his lips seared off and his grin therefore pretty perpetual.

 

The static expression of Hog's own mask bears downward with unrelenting stillness. He studies the man in front of him like a clip of security footage, rather than something he was meant to engage with. Watching Junkrat spring from one pose to another another, he wonders how much of that pep was genuine. Wondered if he was always a comedian, or if this was just a flight response to his predicament. 

 

And to think that Junkrat believes he's being rather good at keeping himself to sit still right now. Leg still bouncing without tire.

 

Hog appears to lose interest long before the punchline, circling around to the back corner of the room, where he delivers a swift kick to the back leg of Junkrat's chair. Not hard enough to send it out from under him, but surely and acutely he'd feel the impact in his spine.

 

He jolts upright at his chair being kicked, a combination of pain from the lack of padding and the unexpected momentum. It's not so much intimidation turning into immediate obedience as it is reflex, and Junkrat plays it off as he places his elbows on the table, steepling his mismatched fingers together, tapping the index fingers against his bottom lip as Roadhog gives him vague threats, like a steadfast mob boss - though Roadhog would pull off the role much better.

 

“Sit up straight.”

 

There was a tone that was used to being heeded.

 

“You're in  _ my _ territory, Fawkes.”

 

And he was very proprietary, very aware of how many crumbling hovels still stood, of which storehouses hadn't run dry, and of which wrecks along the broken highway still held promise. So naturally he found it more than a little offensive when someone began adding new craters where civilization had just barely managed to survive.

 

“What's left of this place doesn't need to be blown up a second time.”

 

“Well…"

 

Junkrat’s grin turns into something nasty, evil, scheming. He looks up at Roadhog's mask through the corner of his glistening amber eyes like a hyena cornering prey -- as if he wasn't sitting in an uncomfortable, metal chair in the interrogation room of the Outback's most feared Enforcer. Perhaps it's just feigned confidence. Perhaps it's because Junkrat is smarter and more well-read than your average Junker.

 

“...you'n yer mates in the ALF should'a thought about that before ya blew it up in the first place, yeah?”

 

A mask can't hide everything. Certainly not the way the ropes that pass for tendons in Hog's neck suddenly pull taut, his eyes widening and his jaw clenching underneath his disguise. Could've been a wild guess for all he knew, but hell, it'd worked. It was too late for Roadhog to stop himself from taking obvious pause. His old wild animal brain takes off running, scouring the realm of possibility for anything that might explain how some barely in his twenties junker could've made that connection.

 

The old HQ was worse off than rubble. He'd made sure of that. Hard-drives, paperwork, all fed to gasoline fire, along with any possible reminder of home. He'd stopped showing his face, never spoke of times gone by to anyone but his conscience, and even that had long gone peacefully quiet.

 

“Ancient history.”

 

He mutters, sounding apathetic enough, but his left hand was dropping quick, reaching for the winch at his hip. A part of him wanted to shut Fawkes up before he was tempted to quip any more on the subject, wary of what it might stir up inside. 

 

Loops of chain that had been jingling ever since he'd entered the room hit the floor, piling on each other as the winch spun. One hand moves to restrain Junkrat while the other reaches around from the side, brandishing the enforcer's trademark hook.

 

“ _ This _ is reality, and you owe me, Fawkes. Big time.”

 

He lowers it to the smaller man's belly and a mimes a slow, dragging motion in the air about an inch or so away from the actual flesh.

 

“Sure hope those rumors are true, or you're gonna die here.”

 

Hook, line, sinker.

 

Junkrat doesn't let on that everything is all turning out according to plan, sitting there with the same smarmy smirk as he takes in Roadhog's reaction. That mask may hide his face, but he's as easy to read as a book.

 

That hook is bad news, but not entirely unexpected. He knew it'd come out eventually - in fact, he thought it'd been even sooner, and be putting him in a far more uncomfortable position. Thankfully for Roadhog - or perhaps more accurately, thankfully for both of them - Junkrat only intended to gouge at the wound, not rub salt into it.

 

Pale, mole-ridden skin flinches under the threat of cold, biting steel, and under Roadhog's restraining, he twitches and squirms, hardly an attempt to escape the hold - just his ever-ongoing battle to sit still.

 

“Owe ya?”

 

It sounds far more optimistic and cheerful than doubtful and sarcastic.

 

“Ain't that fortunate! 'Cause I've got a corker of an offer for ya.”

 

He says it so calmly and confidently that it's clearly not some kind of desperate last-ditch attempt to bid his way to freedom. Junkrat cranes his neck uncomfortably, trying to get as much of the Enforcer into his line of sight as possible, that grin never once fading.

 

“All the mistakes, all the radiation. Wouldn'tcha like ta leave it all behind, mate? Turn over a new leaf, start somethin' new?”

 

His tone is hopeful, dreamy...convicted.

 

Roadhog stares long and hard down his false snout. He hasn't given Junkrat an inch to breathe, but he hasn't yet taken another, either. And maybe that's why the big guy somehow manages to look incredulous in this moment, as though he doesn't quite know what to do with this jittery little oddball who keeps on defying his expectations. 

 

What he gets isn't bared fangs, just a regular (if excessive) smile. And with it, more of that giddy nonchalance that made Hog doubt he was dealing with one of the few sane men left out here in the bush. For a junker to be making a pretty claim like that, he was either truly loaded beyond belief, or too optimistic to be living in reality. 

 

Roadhog's vice-grip on Junkrat's shoulder somewhat slackens as his index finger begins to slowly drum against the captive junker's clavicle, tapping out the seconds he spends mulling over what's all been tossed out there for his consideration.

 

Until, at last, he groans out a response:

 

“Go on.”

 

He'd been a patient man in a past life.

 

“Let's hear it.”

 

Yes! Yes!! The big guy's taken the bait. If Junkrat thought he couldn't possibly be more elated, well, he was wrong. Gotta keep his cool though, and explain this situation in a way that Roadhog will understand.

 

Not that he thinks Roadhog is stupid. It's just that he doesn't expect anyone else on this planet to understand the jumbled mess that is his train of thought without carefully straining it through his language processing center before it comes out of his mouth. Roadhog's finger is like a ball-peen hammer against his bone, and it only serves to rile him up further.

 

“Y'know that treasure everyone's been up me arse about lately?”

 

Cutting to the chase. He gives Roadhog a moment to process the fact that yes, he is finally acknowledging this thing, whatever it is, that he's abnormally tight-lipped about for someone who never seems to stop talking.

 

It's not a very generous moment, but a moment nonetheless.

 

“Y'see, I finally found meself a buyer. Highest bidder. Some bloke up in Russia--at least, I think he's a bloke, tryin'ta use that voice-muddling doovalacky or whatever. Anyway, he thinks I'm an idiot. Goin' on about about how fortunate I am to find him, that our business is totally going to change me life, feedin' me a bunch of that 'chosen one' pork.” Wait, pork? “Ah, that was insensitive -- sorry about that, mate.”

 

Without missing a beat, he continues:

 

“What he don't know is that I've figured out what he's cookin'. I go up there, we have a little "I'll show ya mine if ya show me yers" bit, puts a bullet in me brain before I get a chance to take off with the profit. Shit plan, so I came up with a better one: blow him up and keep the treasure  _ and  _ the profit. But y'see, he's got himself a pretty little peck of Omnic defenses and more organic security-types, and that's where ya come in.”

 

Junkrat points upwards towards Roadhog's face.

 

“ _ You _ just have to keep me alive for long enough so I can pack his suit full'a dynamite, take the moolah he was tryin'ta use as the carrot, and blow up the rest of his esteemed estate fer good measure. Sound good, roight? Ah, but I ain't expectin' ya to do this for free, either. Ya get to keep  _ half _ of what we earn. Non-negotiable.”

 

“Anyway, I know this whole thing sounds pretty unlikely, but I want ya to know I'm totally serious. I'll even show ya me treasure if yer still undecided, but keep in mind I might have ta kill ya if ya still ain't interested after seein' it with yer own two eyes.”

 

“Whaddya say?”

 

It sounded like the plot of some action flick he no longer had any business remembering the name of. Right down to the bit about the explosion at the end. 

 

(And the shady suits always had to be Russian.)

 

Didn't mean this was Roadhog's cue to fire some buckshot through Junkrat's endlessly chattering mouth and call it a day. His testimony was surprisingly coherent. Enough that Hog was left wanting to know more about what word of mouth—and now even the man himself—had only ever ambiguously called treasure. What could possibly be worth that kind of trouble, and why was some foreign cunt so keen on it? He needed numbers, and he definitely needed to see the thing if he was going to even begin to slightly consider buying into it.

 

“ _ Hhh. _ Yeah, pretty unlikely.”

 

Hog wrenches on Junkrat's flesh arm, pulling him backwards, halfway out of his seat. Even as rest of the smaller junker is stopped short by his broad, meaty chest, he maintains a grizzly amount of torque on the limb.

 

Ow! Junkrat winces and sucks in air when his arm is yanked on. Come on, dude, he's only got two limbs left, could you at least go easy on them?

 

“Where is it? Only gonna ask you once, don't be stupid.”

 

He's not looking for anything wishy-washy. No _ "I'll show you, but you gotta let me out of here.” _

 

“Still in the factory wreck. Kinda needed yer help with that too, mate; can't move it by meself.”

 

Yep, all this gunning for Junkrat's head and the thing hasn't even moved from the place where he originally found it. Hog gives Rat's arm another sharp tweak in exchange for that complete disappointment of an answer.

 

“Ghhk!”

 

Alas.

 

“Then you have no proof.”

 

No, seriously, that hurt a lot. Tears well up in the corners of Junkrat’s eyes - genuine ones, because if they were fake he'd be making more of a show of it.

 

Not that he'd try. He knows crying wouldn't work on Roadhog. Tears already? Roadhog just snorts, averting his mask.

 

But seriously,  _ that's _ what it takes to dissuade him? It's just a short walk. Or it would be, if it weren't rigged to the teeth with bombs to keep everyone else's nose out of his business. Maybe that's why the guy is so big - despite his strength, he's never done a day of cardio in his life.

 

“Then I got nothin' for ya, ya fat drongo. Take a raincheck and let me go.”

 

Take a gamble or take nothing. It's your call, big guy.

 

“Can't do that.”

 

And he should understand why the hell not. 

 

Everywhere Fawkes set foot he caused collateral, destroying valuable resources just like a real live rat. There were only a couple ways this whole scenario could end well for a liability like him. One probably involving Roadhog getting his ass blown up because he trusted the bomb guy to lead him into an abandoned sector, which he wasn't about to let happen.

 

He had to be careful about this, at the very least.

 

“You go anywhere, you go in restraints.”

 

...well, that was easy. Junkrat was honestly expecting to end up at a dead end with this - maybe even literally - and even though he hadn't come up with a plan B just yet, it's not like he was going to be out of options.

 

Junkrat rolls his eyes. Restraints, of course. Why did he think that Roadhog would just let him go free? But that's fine - if he wants to feel like he has some kind of upper hand, then Junkrat will let him.

 

“I see anything fishy, I play minesweeper with your good half.”

 

The words filter from him in what was essentially one big long sigh, at the end of which he releases Junkrat abruptly.

 

Joke was on Hog, because if he didn't do this now, it'd stay an inkling in his mind for the rest of his life; and one day, when the neurons weren't firing quite like they used to, he'd go get himself blown up a decade from now without the rat around to take the hit for him.

 

“Ain't gonna see anything but fishy in there, mate. The place is loaded with me contingency plans.”

 

Mm, of course it was.  And yet...

 

Junkrat places his wrists together, presenting them in Roadhog's direction. He'll need his hands out in front if they're really going to do this.

 

“Like this, then. Need'ta be able t'climb and crawl, unless ya want us both'ta get blown up.”

 

Roadhog grunts in what could either be dissatisfaction, or simply acknowledgement. Though, not saying a word, he raises his own hands to sort out what to do with Junkrat's, his big thumb probing briefly at the workings of the prosthetic's wrist-joint shortly before another vaguely displeased sound escapes him.

 

There was some rope out in the bike. He'd double up.

 

For now, he felt for the pair of cuffs in his back pocket. As Roadhog went through the process of handling them, they appeared almost comically small—as most things tended to—but despite the illusion they clap over Junkrat's scrawny wrists with little room to spare. Hog gives them a small tug, making sure they were as snug as they looked, then waves for Junkrat to start heading for the door. It wasn't locked, and the only light outside came from beyond the bend in the hallway. 

 

Hog himself only takes a step or two towards it before coming to a halt and slowly glancing back up at the corner -- at the bit of wire hanging down, no longer connected to anything.

 

“The camera, what'd you do with it?”

 

Finally handcuffed, Junkrat stands up from that oppressive chair. He'll stick close, behind Roadhog the whole time, surprised by the sudden halt he takes at the door. Junkrat follows his eyes to the corner of the room, then grins as if Roadhog had given him the opening to a delightful punchline.

 

“I'll give it back when we're done. Unless, of course, ya don't mind me busying me hands with whatever else I can get them on.”

 

Junkrat knows where they're going, and idle hands are the last thing that Roadhog will want in the picture.

 

But it's actually a fib.

 

That camera has been rigged into a small sticky bomb that has been on Roadhog's person ever since he walked through that interrogation room door, in such a way that he won't be able to find it without the eyes of someone else. He really was relieved when Crispy hadn't ruined his plans -- truly! That would have been awkward.

 

After all...Junkrat said that he'd have to kill Roadhog if he saw the truth and didn't want to go through with it.

 

He meant it.

 

…Yeah nah, forget it. Never was fond of that camera, anyway. He just better not catch the rat getting handsy with Razorback.

 

Once again, the door bellows like an old sea creature, and Roadhog pushes Junkrat into the lead, keeping a hand to his back to keep him steered in the right direction. Junkrat trips up a bit being pushed into the front, but quickly regains his balance. At least Roadhog knows how to steer him so he's not awkwardly trying to play psychic captive - he's been there before and got himself into trouble (and very quickly out of trouble) by losing his patience.

 

Steel shutters line corridor after corridor on an otherwise unremarkable tour, each one with a numbered plaque just above it. (That number getting bigger was all that indicated they weren't wandering in a big circle.) Bland as this place is, Junkrat's eyes are constantly on the move, taking inventory of the monotonous place, which is to say that the only thing he can take note of is dirt and cobwebs and interesting rust patterns.

 

Come magic door 150, the path inclines, feeding up into a darkness so cavernous only about a meager third or so of it lights up when Hog flips the switch, and that was solely thanks to a limited supply of construction-yellow work lamps festooned about the area.

 

It was a junker's wet dream.

 

Tools for cutting, welding, sanding, drilling—even an airbrush—sat organized across a series of rolling workbenches, and beyond those several dollies stacked high with the entrails of various automobiles formed the other half of a loose semi-circle. At their center, surrounded by everything necessary to sustain it until the end of days, was  _ the  _ Frankenstein's monster of a chopper. Impressive but unsightly, and  _ immense _ . More scrap than anything that ever belonged together in a singular construct. The handlebars rose over five feet, and four sharp slashes of metal stuck out of the steering column, fashioned to look like a boar's tusks. 

 

Wet dream  _ indeed _ \- Junkrat is salivating at the workshop inventory, but he doesn't give himself the time to take it all in, because in the end...they're all unimportant compared to Razorback.

He’d seen her before with his own eyes, albeit from a distance, while studying Roadhog, but it's something else to see her up close. The terror of the Outback's parched tarmac practically oozes charisma, her appearance just as iconic as her roar - you only had to hear her to feel ice-cold mortal fear blast through your veins. And yet, here she is, sitting quietly and patiently - a tamed monster waiting for her master.

 

Of course, Junkrat is completely incapable of putting any of these words eloquently. His expression is reminiscent of better places in this world, when children get to visit Disney World for the first time, or expectant parents finally getting the news they'd been hoping for, or when a crazed fan finally gets his chance to high-five Lúcio in person.

 

He coos and crows at her delightedly, eyes wide with admiration for this machine. What he wouldn't do just to have the chance to touch her! Patience.  _ Patience! _ He's going to do something even better. He's about to have the chance to  _ ride _ her, and the thought alone makes him giddy enough to start giggling to himself.

 

Hog carefully steps over the extension cords littering the ground and gets straight to digging what he wanted out of Razorback's seat compartment. His sausage fingers were surprisingly good at knots, it turns out, as Junkrat would soon find his upper arms being fastened to his torso by strong, slick braided rope. He'd be able to climb and crawl, all right. But he wouldn't be doing it fast.

 

Nonetheless, he seems distracted enough by Razorback's presence that Roadhog can further tie him up without the slightest bit of resistance - though his excited, random twitching might make the task slightly harder than it needs to be.

 

From his reaction, Roadhog would absolutely be reasonable to be concerned that Junkrat was going to fuck with Razorback, but he actually has nothing to worry about. Junkrat isn't the kind to deface fair-dinkum  _ majesty. _

 

Pretty far from the first prisoner to act starstruck at the sight of his ride, too, though if Hog'd had some way of knowing the real extent of what all was running through the rat's busy head, he might have felt touched, rather than just smug. 

 

He poured blood, sweat, and marrow into her. Somewhere laying about, there was an oil-spotted bedroll he would collapse onto after a long day spent fixing her up. In the half-light, there were crumpled paperbacks and a broken recliner with a groove shaped like his ass. No one was better company.

 

When everything is said and done, Junkrat looks down at the ropework, wriggling a bit, if mostly to get an idea of what kind of mobility he's been left with. Something about this setup seems...awfully familiar.

 

“…Oi."

 

He looks back up at Roadhog, a fairly genuine look on his face.

 

“This is an awfully specific skillset, mate.”

 

Not that he's judging. Everyone's got to have their hobbies.

 

The comment seemingly elicits no reaction, nor does it deter Hog from plucking at each of the bands woven about Junkrat's ribcage, diligently double-checking his work despite the other man's insinuation, or perhaps even  _ because _ of it. The entire time, his mouth is wry beneath his mask. Fawkes was hardly being original. 

 

Hey, he's not going for original here! You see an artist, you let them know you appreciate their skill. That's how it works, not that anyone's ever returned the gesture to him.

 

Because he can afford to take his sweet time, and because he ought to before heading up shit creek, Hog spends a solid minute or two getting nice and cozy. The bike's suspension sinks toward the ground as he swings one leg on over, and all the while, Junkrat will have the joy of looking on as anywhere he might have comfortably fit is filled out by Roadhog's sheer mass. 

 

She sinks like a domestic cat, rolling over to expose her midline. God, what a beast. He'd ask how he'd possibly managed to earn the honor to be in her presence without dragging behind on the asphalt in her shadow with an oversized hook through his ribcage, but he knows exactly why. He's been working up toward this point for at least a month now, and everything is still going totally according to plan, given a bit improvisation.

 

Once situated, and not a moment sooner, Roadhog begrudgingly turns his attention back to the only other living thing in the room, signaling him over with a quick jerk of his head. 

 

**_Up._ **

 

The foot pegs were already flipped into position. Hog had made sure to do that much for him, but even so, the masked enforcer fixes Junkrat with a knowing look, waiting to see just how he'd manage to wedge his six foot self up on the fender.

 

He manages to avoid being too distracted by Razorback as to miss Roadhog's gesture, and he doesn't so much acknowledge it as immediately look back down to assess...well, what he has to work with. Not much. Enough. He runs through various solutions in his mind, weighing the pros and cons of each, before reaching out with both of his bound hands for the bar that passes as a backrest, vaulting himself over the seat--

 

backwards.

 

There's method to his madness. One, he's not very good at splits, significantly less able to accommodate Roadhog's girth like Razorback is, if he were to face forward. He doesn't have to awkwardly pivot his peg leg against the foot pegs, risking a shift that will send his prosthetic grinding into the road below. Instead, it's used as a fulcrum, resting his shin-analogue over it to avoid slipping. Plus, the exhaust can rest against his metal leg all day and he wouldn't rightly care. Unable to maintain his balance manually, he can easily hold onto the bar with his tied hands.

 

It looks cheesy as hell, but it works.

 

When she snarls to life, Junkrat starts hyperventilating. This is it.  _ This is what she feels like _ . The sensation of her combustion engine, ferocious little explosions, her  _ heartbeat _ . Junkrat covers his face with his trembling arms, breaking into pure, delighted, unhinged laughter at the whole situation.

 

It won't last forever, thankfully, and he'll eventually calm down by the time they're on the road, stabilizing himself again on the bar and watching the Outback wasteland pass by them in reverse, helping himself to make a backrest out of Roadhog's back. It's a remarkably comfortable ride, even while his heart is racing. The Enforcer makes a lovely windbreaker.

 

They pass the occasional gang of junkers; the ballsier ones actually bother to stop and stare instead of hide. Junkrat is completely aware of what this setup might look like, and yet he gives them all an awkward, two-handed salute. He doesn't care what they think. They won't matter once all of this comes to a head.

 

No one's stupid enough to pursue or get in the way. Frankly, most of them are pleased enough to think they're seeing the last moments of Jamison Fawkes.

 

The ruined omnium ever loomed on the horizon, twice dwarfing the shantytown that clung to the outer limits of the original blast radius. Short of staying inside all day, there was no way to avoid seeing it, to avoid acknowledging the wretched existence of the thing. 

 

It had always been an eyesore, whether in one piece or several million. All function, no beauty. Cold and unfeeling. The closer you got, the more it resembled a doomsday spacecraft fallen from orbit.

 

When Razorback runs out of stable ground, Hog eases her down to a crawl, and she mutters almost petulantly as he sorts out a safe path through the debris. Everywhere, he catches glints of things just barely poking up out of the red earth like sharks waiting to chew up her tires.

 

This place was always in flux. Mostly abandoned due to the high concentration of radiation, very few wander nearby, and those that do are here to do  _ shopping _ . Junkrat is a regular.

 

So was half the guy dangling from exposed, mangled rebar above the makeshift entrance. No rewards for guessing what made said entrance. Hopefully this comes as no surprise - he did warn Roadhog that this place was armed to the teeth.

 

“Oooh~”

 

When Junkrat gets off of Razorback, he immediately hobbles up to stand under the disfigured carcass. It's fresh, blood still draining from where his body had been blown apart.

 

“Ya should've knocked, mate! It's only polite! Hehehehe…”

 

Roadhog's first order of business after they arrive is to begin putting together a sort of lean-to for his beloved chopper. He grabs whatever he can wrestle free without bringing entire heaps of scrap down onto his head, the sun-baked steel stinging his hands even through their callouses. He does take the precaution, however, to glance at Fawkes as he knelts to reach for each plate and girder, gambling that the man would warn him were he about to trip something nasty.

 

**_Crack!_ ** _ \--sshlick! _

 

The fresh cadaver peels off into Roadhog's big palm like sixty odd pounds of warm pulled pork. What, exactly, he intends to do with it isn't quite clear until he hangs it back up over his own construction, which he gets around to doing only after he's finished slamming it into the metal, sending whatever's left inside bursting across it in a brilliant spatter.

 

Anyone passing by would hopefully be more focused on the blood than the deliberate, arranged look of the makeshift wall. That, or know how to take a damn hint.

 

He gets it. In a place that only exists these days to get pilfered and gutted, Razorback shouldn't be left alone. The looming threat of inevitable death that would come from stealing Razorback might not be enough to dissuade the junkers insane enough to be here in the first place, so Junkrat is more than happy to stick around and keep an eye on both of them while Roadhog fastens her up and puts up a sign.

 

He gives him a thumbs-up when he's finished before they head inside, and with a joyful little spin, Junkrat heads into the dark maw of his hand-made back entrance. It's only by merit of his ever-smoldering hair that the place has enough light to be navigable.

 

Ever without remark, Roadhog turns to Junkrat, unholstering his shotgun. Now, all that was left to do was something incredibly stupid. 

 

He follows him.

 

Into the mouth of perdition they go, Roadhog watching as Junkrat's knobbly being disappears a few feet in front of him, all except for the faint orange target conveniently painted on the back of his skull.

 

Step carefully, Roadhog, and give him plenty of berth to lead the way, else he takes a wrong turn - but he'll need to keep up, too. This place is a maze, and it's only made more complicated by Junkrat's hidden traps. Every so often, Roadhog may notice a small, blinking light in the darkness, as if there were stalking predators lining the corridors, waiting for their moment to strike.

 

Reality sets in for the two-meters tall enforcer almost immediately. He's a 747 flying nearly blind. Early on, Roadhog feels his ponytail bend down and spring back into place after brushing into some unseen thing, instinctively causing him to do nothing but hunch from that point onward. Between that, keeping his gun trained on Junkrat's specter, and trying to commit their path to memory should this all go south, the chatter is a gross distraction.

 

Thankfully (?) it's not eerily silent around here.

 

“Think the first thing I'll get is some new teeth! Solid gold ones, like old times--'cause I'll be able to afford it after this, that's fer sure. Ya ever notice how many junkers don't care about theirs? It's weird, ain't it? Teeth are important! Can't eat without 'em. Only live so long in this place, and if I'm gonna keel over it's gonna be me own mistake or someone slittin' me throat, not because I got nothin' but gums'ta chew me food. Been takin' good care of 'em, only lost two so far! Wasn't even cavities or whatever. Just fell out one day. Probably because of the radiation, same as me hair. Ya know what the secret is? Baking soda! Baking soda and water.”

 

Who expected this dirty rat to have an obsession with oral hygiene?

 

“Nghh... Little early to be makin' a list.”

 

Left, left, right, left, right. Soon as Roadhog thinks Junkrat's about to let him off the hook (haha), another swell in his voice snaps Hog's train of thought to a halt, and he snarls like a man trying to talk through a pounding headache. “ _ You finished? _ ”

 

“Never ever too early ta plan ahead! Besides, it's not so much a list as it is the only thing I can think of. Well--that and getting out of here. Figured that was implied, though. Can't get that kinda dental care in Junkertown, that's fer sure. Even at gunpoint.”

 

So no, he's never finished.

 

“Ladder here.”

 

And boy, it sure is awkward to try to climb an access ladder with two bound hands and a single good leg, because that peg leg sure isn't built for thin ladder rungs. It's a slow, arduous process, and despite his endless chattering, he doesn't actually complain about it--he's too busy grunting about the task. Junkrat awkwardly flops face-first onto the platform it leads to, worming his way up it before he can lift himself back upright. He doesn't take off from here, rather waiting for Roadhog to make his way up it too.

 

This would mark Junkrat's first foolproof opportunity to make a clean getaway. There's no highway waiting to turn him into hash. There's no bright sunlight keying Hog to his every movement so that he could turn and launch a hook into the man’s back at a moment's notice.

 

From the base of the ladder, Roadhog doesn't have a clean shot at all. A few steps back, or better: a quick dive would put him entirely out of sight. Worst case, Junkrat might have caught a pellet or two, but he could sprint to the far end of the platform and be gone before Hog managed to pull himself up after him.

 

When Roadhog crests the last rung to find him still there, fidgeting in the dim, he's made a little bit more of a believer. From then on, he focuses less on his gun arm and more on maneuvering, and the two make as good time as a tied-up amputee and an old fat man can. Every so often he offers a low growl in response to remind the rat what kind of terms they were on.

 

“Never wanted anythin' big, ya know? Fancy cars and pretty houses--mansions--maybe a couple of cute maids servin' drinks'ta ya while hangin' out by a big pool. Maybe it'd be fun as vacation, but I ain't about that life. I'd rather travel. There's so much'ta this world, mate, and here we've been stuck in this wasteland this whole time! I mean, New Zealand -- it's not that far away, and I've seen the pictures. It's totally different! Green pastures, high mountains, colorful meadows, beaches with soft, white sand. Waterfalls. Cute little sheepies. I wanna pet one! They look so soft.”

 

More walking later, more chattering later, they get to the crawling part. It's a wreckage, metal warped and bowed from the explosion all those years ago. Sure, there's enough space here, even for Roadhog - but it doesn't look at all stable, and the fear of a slow, agonizing death that would come with being crushed has left this place entirely untouched except by Junkrat's handiwork.

 

Roadhog doesn't tell him to shut up. Junkrat could go on about whatever he wanted, and it would still be preferable to the ominous groan of the structure overhead of them as he slowly wriggled deeper, his belly dragging on the ground and a peg leg occasionally stamping him in the fingers.

 

At least the rat'd chosen something nice.

 

They  _ were _ soft.

 

“ _ Hff… _ "

 

“Almost there, mate. Just this last leg. I know it looks tetchy - just don't sneeze! Hehehe~”

 

It's impossible to tell if this is supposed to be a joke or a genuine warning. Like always, though, he leads the way, in probably what is the most backbreaking part of this trip. 

 

When it ends, Junkrat stands upright again, taking not but a dozen steps before stopping. This must be some kind of open space, because the light thrown by Junkrat's hair dies before actually landing on anything to light it up.

 

His voice always sounds so delighted, especially during his yabbering, like everything is leaning up to a big punchline, a payoff. But now, it's stopped. He waits for Roadhog to catch up with him before turning his head to the other.

 

“This is it, mate. This is your last chance to walk away from this in one piece.”

  
  
  


He gives Roadhog some time to genuinely consider his options. More time than Junkrat usually gives, thanks to his own impatience - but he's serious about this. This is a game-changer. This is something he can wait for. But when Roadhog doesn't leave, Junkrat shifts his foot in the darkness.

 

“Watch yer eyes.”

 

That's the only warning he gives before his foot flips the switch on the single, overpowered construction light that powers on with an aching  _ CLUNK _ and casts the area in harsh, stark light. 

 

Roadhog's neck prickles.

 

Front and center lays a device that is essentially a human-sized box, full of experimental Omnic branding. It's nondescript, yet obvious: an AI core, and whatever designs and plans may be inside.

 

There had been rumors, when Roadhog was Junkrat's age, murmurs and fears of the second Omnic crisis, and the panic only lit up worse when tabloids started talking about an even more advanced AI, more advanced designs, more autonomy, though these conversations slowly died out after the omnium explosion. It wasn't a coincidence.

 

The revulsion is instant. Hard-wired. Like when an arachnophobe catches sight of something black and spindly out of the corner of their eye. He doesn't need to immediately comprehend what he's seeing to feel sick to his stomach from it.

 

Junkrat is silent.

 

He watches Roadhog carefully, to glean whatever kind of read he can get out of his masked visage, all the joy and fun and jokes have left the premises. There is nothing he could have said to prepare Roadhog for this. 

 

Hidden from sight, Junkrat's thumb hovers over the button over a small, button-sized detonator.

 

Roadhog steps forward, sets himself down on one knee, and places a big hand on the box. The fingers that grip it are like claws, bowed up and trembling as he studies the shapes etched into the surface.

 

Junkrat's thumb ghosts over the button when Roadhog goes to touch it, half expecting the big guy to just start tearing the thing up. While he understands and is terribly tempted to do the same, it's too valuable to make it the target of catharsis. Not in this day and age. Not with what they can do with it

 

In the beginning, they'd only been fighting to take back their homes. The government's decision was callous, cowardice disguised as compassion. These things weren't people. Those tabloids were the only publications with the guts to tell the right of it. Then, they began to see things during their raids: maintenance drones with new attachments, machinery serving the production line that could not be matched to any of Omnica Corps original schematics. That was when their cause had become grander. Their actions more vicious, more desperate.

 

“Should just throw the switch, torch both me and this fuckin' thing.”

 

Roadhog's voice is flat. Near-pensive. The most neutral tone he's taken since they locked eyes. 

 

“You had something like that planned, didn't you?”

 

He hasn't seen what Junkrat's got hidden. He's just guessing. There wasn't much else Fawkes could have meant by those warnings. 

 

Were he truly still a creature of morals, he'd have already pried the box open to fire off every round he had directly into its contents. Or at least, been immolated trying. Instead, he levels a stare at Junkrat over his shoulder, and waits very patiently for whatever he might have to say to change his mind about that.

 

“No.”

 

The answer is immediate, without any hesitation and full of commitment.

 

“Just you.”

 

In the stark, white light, Junkrat's face is stone cold. His permanent amusement and glee always implied his volatile nature, but this sobered side of him carries something even more dangerous - maybe even a merciless streak that would rival even that of Roadhog's.

 

“I'm serious. Proper radiation treatment, new teeth, soft sheep. This piece'a junk is my ticket out of here, and I'm either gonna do it with or without ya.”

 

He tilts his head to the side, regarding Roadhog a half-lidded look. He's getting impatient, but he doesn't want to jump the gun either.

 

“Not many people out here would understand.” Junkers don't usually have any use for silicon and plastic. The gold is too insignificant to make anything decent out of. “Figured you would.”

 

Common sense told him the treasure couldn't have been anything but this; the omnium was no Cave of Wonders. Yet Roadhog had spent their entire descent waiting to be double-crossed, and no time at all mentally preparing himself for the alternative.

 

He rolls back heavily onto his rear, plopping himself directly down, right in front of the one thing he might consider more monstrous than himself. The enforcer crosses his legs, one at a time, and rests one hand on each knee, facing it, gazing into his faint reflection - more of a shadow, really - like a tribal leader considering a matter of great importance.

 

His eyes move restlessly behind his mask, never quite done sizing it up.

 

“Say it again.”

 

Maybe it seems as though he's trying to foil Junkrat by sticking so close, but he knows that won't really kill two birds with one stone. That container there was designed to keep the prototype safe.

 

And it had. From a nuclear meltdown.

 

“Tell me how much.”

 

Junkrat approaches. The proximity is hardly intimidating, and the  _ ta-tap, ta-tap _ of his uneven footfalls echoes sharply against shards snd shreds of the twisted metal surrounding them. On the opposite side of the core, Junkrat leans down and rests his bound forearms against the machine, metal and metal and rope and metal clattering with a shameless lack of fear. Roadhog could pull up an arm and rest the nozzle of his shotgun on Junkrat's nose, but he's not the slightest bit intimidated.

 

In this rathole, Jamison Fawkes has the upper hand.

 

“Fifteen million. One, five, six zeroes.”

 

He actually hadn't said it before - not that he remembers one way or the other.

 

“Split half, seven and a half mil. You keep me alive, we get this done, and we can both go along our merry ways.”

 

Junkrat comes through, offering him eight decadent digits of just the kind of justification Roadhog needs to make this all A-OK. First, he mouths them, lets his lips try out the velvety feel. Then, he says them, rolling his head all the way back and supping on the syllables like a long drag of hogdrogen.

 

The rush is almost the same.

 

“Fifteen million.”

 

He's left staring straight up, the eyes of his mask flushed with light. Someone out there was prepared to break the bank for this box of bad news; he doesn't dare think too hard on why. A younger man would have demanded to know, but Roadhog didn't have to go that far. That's what he was here for, to not give a shit. He can't start caring now. Shouldn't. Caring made it impossible to move forward.

 

“ _ Hhh - hhh… _ "

 

The laughter starts slow and builds slow. His hands lose tension, sliding from his knees until they hang listlessly in his lap. Fifteen million. He used to be a mechanic. “ _ Hhh hhh hhh _ …” It's funny, right? Never even daydreamed about seeing that kind of money outside of the seconds spent scratching off the occasional impulse-bought ticket down at the servo.

 

“ _ Mhhrr hhh hhh... _ HA HA HA HA!”

 

The laughter's wracking Roadhog's whole body soon. His shoulders bounce and his belly shakes from the might of each thunder-like boom, the inside of his mask likely getting sprayed with spit. Junkrat may find it all a little familiar. Even the firmest grip slips when greased. Though, no one still alive has seen Roadhog lose it quite like this.

 

_ “Fifteen big ones! _ Keh - heh - heh... hah - HAH - HAAAH!”

 

One more great, big gut-busting guffaw to drown out the sound of all his friends and comrades, the proud men and women of ALF, rolling in their graves as he extends an open hand to the sly little demon across from him.

 

Junkrat's stone-cold stare slowly upturns into an amused grin, watching Roadhog lose it like this. His elbows bend, and he cradles his jaw in his hands, like a lovestruck fool watching a passing beau as he watches Roadhog slip into the same delighted, carnal-like desire for wealth like he had when he'd first hatched this plan several weeks ago.

 

Roadhog's former comrades won't have to be rolling for long - if Junkrat's grand scheme follows through as well as it's been going so far, they'll be able to rest just fine. There's making money, and then there's holding on to what is right, especially by way of keeping filthy omnics from taking any more innocent peoples' lives.

 

In response to Roadhog's hand, Junkrat holds out his own bound arms expectantly. He can't shake on something when he's tied up - that'd be a bargain, not a deal.

 

Yeah, yeah… Roadhog's hand closes around both of Junkrat's wrists like a trap, dragging him forwards so he can access the knots on his back. Dismantling his own work will only take a minute, if not seconds. Soon enough, the ropes sag into loose whorls, but before Junkrat is granted the opportunity to rejoice in his regained mobility, Hog snatches him again, this time by the jaw, bringing them face-to-snout. His rabid mirth has subsided. He even resists laughing at Junkrat's ridiculous expression as his fingers squish his cheeks together in such a way that he can't possibly utter a single intelligible word.

 

So long as they were doing one another favors, he still had quite the thorn in his own paw.

 

“—Ghff.”

 

Have a noise to go with the face, too! Holy dooley, this guy is huge. It's not like a sudden revelation or anything, but there's a keen reminder when his head fits in Roadhog's hand like a chicken egg does in his own. He feels about as fragile too, wanting to comment on Roadhog's keen instincts but, alas, unable to.

 

“Disarm it.”

 

Junkrat reaches up above Roadhog's head, well into the blind spot that his mask would contribute to. He grabs ahold of something and pulls, nearly bringing the mask with it it as a powerful adhesive creaks at being removed from old leather. Roadhog physically recoils as he feels the leather begin to pull away from his skin, and maybe that's what gives Junkrat the last bit of oomph he needs to break the seal in the end. His free hand flies to his face, big blunt fingertips acting quickly to knead the edge of his mask back into place from where it's been tugged ever so slightly askew.

 

If you think this seems like the sort of reaction that preludes a vicious beating, you'd be right. That's usually how this goes. But Roadhog is smart enough to bite back the flash of rage. He has a lot riding on this. Junkrat is an essential part of what makes this wild proposition the least bit feasible, and the next few seconds prove he's just doing as told.

 

The bomb finally comes off with a pop and Junkrat lowers it into view.

 

It's long, skinny, and pointed. Roadhog looked like a unicorn with it stuck to his forehead. A unipig. A potentially explosive unipig. Junkrat disconnects a single wire, then tosses it off to the side.

 

“Mfhnn.”

 

He's removed the thorn, all right. Roadhog's eyes try to follow it, even after Junkrat chucks it a safe (?) distance away. The precise placement of the bomb is even more bewildering than its size.

 

Attempting to make sense of how it got there sets him boiling some more, but he can't go off. For now, they wanted the same thing. Very,  _ very _ badly.

 

When Roadhog finally lets go, the key to Junkrat's cuffs lands atop the core with a dull ping. The smaller junker was likely more dexterous as he was now than Roadhog ever would be with both his hands free. 

 

He'd be right about that. Junkrat takes up the key and undoes the cuffs with practiced precision, as if he'd done it a million times before. Because he has. They fall off of his wrists, unceremoniously clattering on top of the core and then cascading onto the dusty floor below them.

 

Roadhog puts out a hand again, and he waits. Same one he'd been using to crush Junkrat just moments ago, no big deal.

 

With his teeth sunk into freedom once again, Junkrat gleefully plunges his hand into Roadhog's, perhaps even more literally than it sounds. The only thing he'd really get his hand around is his thumb, so Roadhog gets to shake hands with not only a cybernetic hand but basically his whole forearm too.

 

His smirk is full of delighted piss and vinegar.

 

“Looks like the start of a beautiful partnership ta me, mate.”

 

He's just saying it to be cheeky.

 

He has no idea that it'll end up turning out way more literal than he intended it to be.

 


End file.
